The New York Knickerbocker News-Stuyvesant Bulletin
“Running the reporting gamut from Centre Street to Kinderhook”
Morning edition, January 31, 1813.
Exclusive to The News-Bulletin
By Absalom Van Wyck.
An Interview with a Disgraced Government Official.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Debtor, traitor, assassin. These words might refer to any number of American government officials, but in this case they describe Vice President Aaron Burr, whom this roving reporter had the pleasure of interviewing recently. (As he is a debaucher, as well, we at The News-Bulletin wouldn’t be surprised if he also had the pox.)
Burr and I had perforce to meet in Philadelphia, rather than at my choice of Fraunces Tavern in New York, as Burr isn’t able to show his face in either New York or New Jersey since he popped a cap into Alexander Hamilton nine years ago. Now, on this drizzly day in Philly, we sat at a bistro table on the sidewalk just outside a run-down café called the Coffee Ground.
The reason we chose to be outdoors instead of in the comparable comfort inside was that Burr wanted to watch a certain young lady next door as she worked on her hands and knees to scrub the flagstones. He seldom took his eyes off her décolletage, which he described wistfully as “two lolling cups of vanilla pudding.”
I myself was not so fortunate in the placement of my chair, as my back was towards her. My view was of an inordinately hairy Neanderthal who was scraping the mold off a long cheese log.
I was hard put to elicit any conversation from Burr, though I had come equipped with interview questions, viz., 1.) Is it cold out here or is it me? 2.) Do you know the lyrics to the “Cornwallis Country Dance”? and 3.) What do you think of my new waistcoat?
The new waistcoat is spectacular, of a brilliant peacock blue Vicuña wool embroidered with navy thread and lined with Chinese silk. I confess I often remove my jacket, even in inclement weather, so that I may show the waistcoat off. To my dismay, however, in so doing earlier in the day, I had spilled barbecue sauce on my prized garment while eating ribs.
So, as soon as I caught the attention of a waiter, I called, “Garçon, club soda here, instanter!”
The dreary youth shambled over to our table and said, “We don’t have club soda. We’re a coffee house.”
But I was not to be deterred. My chief priority was to get out that stain. “No need for apologies, young man. Just bring me some good, hot water and a clean rag.”
The youth scratched his nose and said, “We don’t have any water. The boss didn’t pay the utility bill last month, so the city cut us off.”
“My condolences to the establishment, young fellow!” I said, spreading my napkin over my waistcoat. “ Just bring me a piping hot cup of coffee with a soupçon of Kahlua. And leave the Kahlua on the table.”
“We don’t have any water or electric. And we’ve run out of coffee.”
“ Ah, well, that can’t be helped. I shall have tea, Garçon.”
“We don’t serve tea. We’re a coffee house. And my name isn’t Garçon. It’s Hiram.”
The lad was starting to test my patience. “Then I shall have coffee, my good man.”
“We’ve run out.”
“Not to worry, I shall have tea, instead.”
At this point Burr interrupted, saying, “Look here, Van Wyck, my time is short. I have an AA meeting in forty-five minutes.”
“Then, by all means, let us proceed with the interview. I was wondering--”
But here he cut me off. “I was wondering, too,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d lend me twenty dollars until Friday.”
To ask for such a sum meant only one thing: Burr had learnt that my grandfather made a fortune by inventing the modern door stop. Before then, doors were always swinging shut at the most inopportune times. My father had tripled the assets by founding The New York Knickerbocker News.
“Dad keeps me on a very short financial leash,” I told Burr. “The News-Bulletin has been through hard times lately and--”
“I don’t care about the newspaper. My interest lies elsewhere.”
“I see. Well, if your interest lies in modern door stops, don’t ask me about them. Grandfather buried the schematics somewhere in the Outer Banks off the coast of North Carolina. He was a secretive man, a genius, and a novelty pianist in Muggsy Spanier’s Ragtime Band.”
Burr emitted a long, low, mucous growl.
I returned to my original line of inquiry. “I was wondering, Burr, old man, if you knew of any really good restaurants in Philly.”
“This interview is over,” he barked, then rose clamorously and stalked off down the street, no doubt headed to a good restaurant for dinner. I rose, faced the young lady on the flagstones, and offered her the twenty dollars that Burr had craved, but not for her cleaning services.
“Running the reporting gamut from Centre Street to Kinderhook”
Morning edition, January 31, 1813.
Exclusive to The News-Bulletin
By Absalom Van Wyck.
An Interview with a Disgraced Government Official.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Debtor, traitor, assassin. These words might refer to any number of American government officials, but in this case they describe Vice President Aaron Burr, whom this roving reporter had the pleasure of interviewing recently. (As he is a debaucher, as well, we at The News-Bulletin wouldn’t be surprised if he also had the pox.)
Burr and I had perforce to meet in Philadelphia, rather than at my choice of Fraunces Tavern in New York, as Burr isn’t able to show his face in either New York or New Jersey since he popped a cap into Alexander Hamilton nine years ago. Now, on this drizzly day in Philly, we sat at a bistro table on the sidewalk just outside a run-down café called the Coffee Ground.
The reason we chose to be outdoors instead of in the comparable comfort inside was that Burr wanted to watch a certain young lady next door as she worked on her hands and knees to scrub the flagstones. He seldom took his eyes off her décolletage, which he described wistfully as “two lolling cups of vanilla pudding.”
I myself was not so fortunate in the placement of my chair, as my back was towards her. My view was of an inordinately hairy Neanderthal who was scraping the mold off a long cheese log.
I was hard put to elicit any conversation from Burr, though I had come equipped with interview questions, viz., 1.) Is it cold out here or is it me? 2.) Do you know the lyrics to the “Cornwallis Country Dance”? and 3.) What do you think of my new waistcoat?
The new waistcoat is spectacular, of a brilliant peacock blue Vicuña wool embroidered with navy thread and lined with Chinese silk. I confess I often remove my jacket, even in inclement weather, so that I may show the waistcoat off. To my dismay, however, in so doing earlier in the day, I had spilled barbecue sauce on my prized garment while eating ribs.
So, as soon as I caught the attention of a waiter, I called, “Garçon, club soda here, instanter!”
The dreary youth shambled over to our table and said, “We don’t have club soda. We’re a coffee house.”
But I was not to be deterred. My chief priority was to get out that stain. “No need for apologies, young man. Just bring me some good, hot water and a clean rag.”
The youth scratched his nose and said, “We don’t have any water. The boss didn’t pay the utility bill last month, so the city cut us off.”
“My condolences to the establishment, young fellow!” I said, spreading my napkin over my waistcoat. “ Just bring me a piping hot cup of coffee with a soupçon of Kahlua. And leave the Kahlua on the table.”
“We don’t have any water or electric. And we’ve run out of coffee.”
“ Ah, well, that can’t be helped. I shall have tea, Garçon.”
“We don’t serve tea. We’re a coffee house. And my name isn’t Garçon. It’s Hiram.”
The lad was starting to test my patience. “Then I shall have coffee, my good man.”
“We’ve run out.”
“Not to worry, I shall have tea, instead.”
At this point Burr interrupted, saying, “Look here, Van Wyck, my time is short. I have an AA meeting in forty-five minutes.”
“Then, by all means, let us proceed with the interview. I was wondering--”
But here he cut me off. “I was wondering, too,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d lend me twenty dollars until Friday.”
To ask for such a sum meant only one thing: Burr had learnt that my grandfather made a fortune by inventing the modern door stop. Before then, doors were always swinging shut at the most inopportune times. My father had tripled the assets by founding The New York Knickerbocker News.
“Dad keeps me on a very short financial leash,” I told Burr. “The News-Bulletin has been through hard times lately and--”
“I don’t care about the newspaper. My interest lies elsewhere.”
“I see. Well, if your interest lies in modern door stops, don’t ask me about them. Grandfather buried the schematics somewhere in the Outer Banks off the coast of North Carolina. He was a secretive man, a genius, and a novelty pianist in Muggsy Spanier’s Ragtime Band.”
Burr emitted a long, low, mucous growl.
I returned to my original line of inquiry. “I was wondering, Burr, old man, if you knew of any really good restaurants in Philly.”
“This interview is over,” he barked, then rose clamorously and stalked off down the street, no doubt headed to a good restaurant for dinner. I rose, faced the young lady on the flagstones, and offered her the twenty dollars that Burr had craved, but not for her cleaning services.